


west-by-midwest #2

by zempasuchil



Series: west-by-midwest [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-28
Updated: 2010-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:58:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zempasuchil/pseuds/zempasuchil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once they've put enough distance between themselves and California, Sam finally starts looking around himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	west-by-midwest #2

  
First motel, Sam doesn't sleep. Next, too. It gets to be a problem. He'll only sleep in the car or during the day, or that one night when Dean stays up watching TV even though he's exhausted. When the Die Hard credits roll, he finally looks over to see Sam burrowed into his pillow, ambushed by sleep with his mouth all open and a dark spot of drool spreading on the pillow.

-

Once they've put enough distance between themselves and California, Sam finally starts looking around himself, waking up some instead of being one of the walking dead. Dean is unsettlingly relieved. He didn't think it'd been that bad, but every day now he's seeing how bad it's been.

He catches Sam staring: at the Impala, at the crappy motels, at the old haunted houses and warehouses and barns. Out the window, at Dean, at Dad's journal without opening it. Like he's found something new. Like it's been longer than four fucking years.

"Hey," Dean says. "Snap out of it." Sam's standing back from the porch, suddenly looking like he doesn't belong in his fake Fed suit (for the first time, Dean scoffs), suddenly staring at the crumbling porch and the dark gaps underneath you can see stuffed with dried brown leaves. It's the same as any old house here on the outskirts of town. Bleached and slightly peeling paint, worn away entirely in traces on the steps. A porch swing. A screen door. Cobwebs in the tall corners, chips in the porch railing.

Is it really that strange? Dean wants to know. Sam's stupid staring makes him angry. This is what Sam grew up with. Four years doesn't erase that. Sure, Dean stared at Stanford, but this, this broken-down Midwest rambler in a washed-out Midwest landscape, this is their _life_. _Their_ life. Dean is selfish but Sam doesn't have the right to be a stranger.

-

"You ever notice how all these hotels are actually incredibly genuinely from the 70s? That's - that's like 40 years ago. We're stepping back in _time_."

Dean drops his bag with a bang. "Of course I fucking notice, you don't think I've got shag carpeting stuck between my toes? I've been noticing shitty motels my whole goddamn life!" _When the fuck did you forget?_ he wants to ask. He doesn't. But his furious stare might as well be burning it into Sam's forehead.

Sam's eyes are wide and then narrow and then, strangely, just looking away, down and to the side. Only Sam could mumble something that sounds like "Never mind" and hide himself by going through his bag like he's unpacking (which they never do in a motel, seriously); only he could ignore Dean's rage like this and get away with it. Only Sam.

Dean shakes his head and takes the shower first without calling it.

-

"It's like," Sam starts when they're 20 miles out of town and they've hit their stride, just started relaxing into daydream.

Dean doesn't glance over to see Sam looking in the side mirror. Doesn't say anything. Okay, Sam. Whatever.

"It's like, sometimes you don't notice things till you step back. Like really far back. And look at other things. Coming back is - it's different. No," and Dean is pretending he isn't clenching his fists around the steering wheel, "it's not different, it's the same, it's so fucking the same I had no idea." Sam laughs, incredulous, relieved. "I think I'm remembering stuff I never even thought or noticed before. Stuff looks different." He glances at Dean. "But only 'cause it's the same."

He stops there and Dean hesitates but there have been worse silences, sure. Finally, "I'm not even going to pretend that made sense, Sam."

Sam sighs and slouches down in his seat. Dean hears the roll of the eyes in his exhale but for once he doesn't feel annoyed, and he turns the music down a notch so Sam can sleep.


End file.
